So Nude, So Dead

by Ed McBain

  “I don’t follow.”

  “She can sing, man. A golden throat, you follow? Wouldn’t have been right to hold her back. Be different if it was the old days.” He paused, nodded his head. “You ever catch any of the old records I cut?”

  “Yes,” Ray said.

  “Moonglow, Basin Street Blues, Can’t Get Started. Hell, I could really blow then. A thrush like Babs would have been right there with the old Scat Lewis combo. Ain’t the same no more. She’s better off with Kramer.”

  “I see.”

  “I got a stand-still band, man. We ain’t going nowhere but right where we are. Kid like Eileen, she just loved to warble, didn’t matter where, didn’t matter for who. Babs—well, she’s got drive, ambition. Better off with Kramer. You see, man, I got no illusions, you follow me? I know just what I used to be, and just what I am. So Babs wanted more than the outfit could give her. I let her go. You know?”

  “Sure,” Ray said. Every muscle in his body felt lax, loose. His face felt tired, worn and still the steam persisted.

  “Strictly a stand-still band, mine. You know?”

  “Sure,” Ray repeated.

  “Eileen was happy with us, though. And like I said, she could really warble sometimes.”

  “What was your connection with Eileen?”

  “I don’t dig you.” Lewis’s voice was puzzled.

  “You know, what—”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m with you.” Lewis began laughing, a soft chuckle that rolled upward from the layers of fat around his middle. His face was red through the steam when he answered. “Just look at me, man. There’s your answer.”

  He laughed again. “Eileen was a young chick, pretty. Me, I’m nowhere, absolutely nowhere. In the old days, maybe, but not now. Nope, I was just an employer to Eileen. And a friend, I guess.”

  “What makes you think she was trying a cure? You said a little while ago that—”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, she kept going to see a doctor, figured that was why.”

  “Which doctor? Where?”

  “Doctor Leo—I think it was Leo—Simms. Got an office on East Seventy-third. You’ll find his number in the book.”

  “Leo Simms,” Ray repeated.

  “Yeah, I think it was Leo. Something like that anyway.”

  “Leo Simms.”

  “Yeah.” Lewis smiled. “Man, you look hot.”

  “Christ,” Ray said. “I am hot!”

  “Me, I could sit here all day. Really good for you, too. Gets all the bugs out of your system.”

  Ray wiped his forehead again. “Gets the system out of your system, too,” he said wryly.

  Lewis laughed, the layers of fat rolling and rolling.

  “Well, thanks,” Ray said. “You’ve really helped a lot.”

  He started for the door, anxious to take a shower and a shave. He’d need a shave if he were going to call on Dr. Simms.

  He pushed through the steam, and behind him he heard Lewis shout, “You won’t print that marijuana stuff now, will you?”

  Chapter Twelve

  I spend my life in phone booths, he thought. Ever since Eileen was killed, I’ve been living inside a phone booth.

  Someone’s acrid sweat clung to the mouthpiece. His nose twitched as he waited, listening to the buzz on the other end.

  Come on, come on!

  “Hello.” The voice was soft, and it rather excited him.

  “Babs?”

  “Ray! Darling, where are you? Are you all right? I was nearly fran—”

  “I’m all right, Babs. I’m fine.”

  “Darling, darling, why did you leave? I should never have let you go. I didn’t sleep all night. I—”

  Ray grinned. “Neither did I, honey.”

  “Where are you, Ray?”

  “I’m on East Seventy-third Street. I’ve got to see a doctor.”

  “A doctor? Ray, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, honey, considering. The doctor’s not for me.”

  “Oh.”

  “All right if I come up tonight?”

  Her voice lowered. “Do you have to ask, Ray?”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “I’ll leave the key with the doorman.”

  “Won’t you be home?”

  “No. I’m singing tonight. Kramer’s decided to come out of mourning, the hypocrite.”

  “All right, I’ll be over.”

  “Darling?”

  “Yes?”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up, waited for the flutter in his stomach to subside. Christ, what a woman! he thought.

  Dr. Leo Simms was a dignified man who looked like an older Errol Flynn. He kept his well-manicured hands in front of him, the fingers built into a small, tapering cathedral.

  “And you are her brother?” he asked Ray. He cocked an eyebrow, and his face remained expressionless.

  “Yes,” Ray said.

  “Mmm. Well, yes, Mr. Chalmers, your sister was pregnant.”

  Ray nodded, watching the doctor’s cool blue eyes. The doctor was prematurely gray, and his hair was meticulously combed back on the sides of his head.

  “How far along?” Ray asked.

  Dr. Simms tapped the fingers in his cathedral together, then allowed the structure to collapse as he placed his hands on the desk. “Three months, we figured.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “On the morning of the day she was murdered. I was rather astonished when I saw the newspaper the next day.”

  A warning signal clicked in Ray’s brain.

  “Did she seem worried about the baby?”

  “No, not at all. She asked the usual questions an expectant mother asks.”

  “Did—did you know she was an addict?”

  “Of course. I told her she’d have to quit. I was amazed she hadn’t lost the baby already. In cases like that, the mother usually miscarries between the first and third months.”

  “Is it possible that— I mean, was it dangerous? Being pregnant and an addict?”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t desirable. You understand that the mother’s bloodstream supplies the baby, too. It’s rare that a child will survive under such constant exposure to stimulants. Frankly, I was anticipating a miscarriage.”

  “But her death? That couldn’t—”

  “Have been due to the baby? I hardly think so. The newspapers say there were two bullet holes in her stomach.”

  “Yes. Of course. I—”

  “Mrs. Kramer never mentioned a brother,” Dr. Simms said abruptly. “Neither did the newspapers. I’ve been following them rather closely. Sort of a personal interest, you might say.”

  Ray stood up. “Well, Dr. Simms, thanks—”

  “You’d better go fast, Mr. Stone,” the doctor said. “I’m going to call the police as soon as you leave this room.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Ray said, his voice half-pleading.

  Dr. Simms walked to the phone, rested his hand on the cradle. “I didn’t say you did. As a matter of fact, the reason I didn’t call the police immediately was that I was curious about your visit to me.” He shrugged. “I’ll have to call them, though. Strictly to protect myself, you understand.”

  “Sure.” Ray turned, walked toward the big, double white doors.

  “One thing, Stone.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your hair. It’s blond again. Perhaps the police won’t have to know that.”

  Ray looked at the doctor for a long time. The doctor was smiling gently. “Thanks,” Ray said. “Thanks.”

  He closed the big doors behind him, walked past the women with bulging stomachs in the waiting room, then stepped out into the air, the sun flashing down into his eyes.

  A car pulled up to the curb, and two men climbed leisurely to the sidewalk. Ray turned, began walking toward Park Avenue.

  It was a lazy
morning, the kind of morning that made a guy want to lie in the grass with his shoes off. Maybe he’d walk in the park, relax a while. Hell, there wouldn’t be many cops in the park. Who’d look for a murderer in Central Park?

  The idea appealed to him. There wasn’t much he could do now, anyway. Ask a few more questions, possibly. But who? Rusty O’Donnell? She was Kramer’s new doll, and maybe she knew something. Well, he could do that later. He was tired, and he could use a little nap. He quickened his step, suddenly became aware of the clicking foosteps behind him.

  A man drew up on his left, and Ray turned his head quickly. He snapped it back when he felt strong fingers tightening on his right arm.

  “Hey, what—”

  “Just keep walking, Mac,” the man on his left said. “Just keep walking and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  The police! That lousy, rotten doctor had…

  “That’s a good boy,” the man on the right said. “Just keep your trap shut and keep walking.”

  He clamped his teeth on his lower lip, kept walking between the two men. Somehow, they didn’t act like cops.

  “See that gray Buick turning the corner?”

  Ray looked, saw a car pulling onto Park Avenue. It was the same car that had drawn alongside the curb as he left the doctor’s office. He nodded.

  “Well, we’re going to get in that car,” the man on his left said softly. “Just walk up to it, understand? I’ll open the door and get in first. You’ll get in next, and Freddy’ll get in last. All natural-like, you understand, Mac?”

  “I understand.”

  They walked over to the car, three gentlemen out for an afternoon stroll. The man on Ray’s left opened the door, showed Ray his broad back as he entered. Ray climbed in after him, and Freddy got into the car and slammed the door.

  “Okay,” the burly man said. “Let’s go.”

  The driver turned back, grinning. He had a toothpick in his mouth, and his nose curled down almost to his lips. His hair was slicked back with oil. “This the junkie?” he asked.

  “This is him.” The man on Ray’s left nudged Ray in the ribs. “That right, Mac?”

  “I—”

  He jabbed Ray again, harder this time. “Answer when I talk to you, Mac.”

  “Sure,” Ray said, beginning to get angry now. “I’m the junkie.”

  The big man’s hand lashed out, catching Ray on his jawbone. Ray’s head snapped back, and he brought his hand to his face, his eyes wide in surprise.

  “Talk decent,” the big man said.

  “Easy, Hank,” Freddy cautioned. “Easy.”

  Hank shrugged, seemed to pout off into his corner of the car. “He was getting snotty,” he said. “Damn hophead.”

  The driver threw the car into gear, set it in motion. They headed west, hitting the West Side Highway, up the Henry Hudson Parkway, finally onto the Saw Mill River Parkway. They rode in silence, Hank’s big shoulders pressing against Ray, Freddy’s shoulders against his on the right.

  “You’re not police,” Ray said.

  The driver laughed, and Hank said, “You’re smart, you know?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What’s it all about?” Ray persisted.

  “You talk too much,” Freddy said.

  Ray looked at the man. He had bright red hair, a freckled face. For a moment, he reminded Ray of the bartender at the Ace High. But there was a meanness in Freddy’s eyes that killed that thought immediately.

  Hank cleared his throat and Ray turned his head. He was heavily bearded, with thick lips and a thick nose. Heavy scar tissue hugged his eyes, lidding their brownness. Ray looked at the beard, and was suddenly happy that he’d shaved.

  “You’ll get plenty of chance to talk later,” Hank informed him. “Meanwhile, shut up.”

  * * *

  The windows of the farmhouse were boarded up, the house itself set far back from the main highway. The car bounced and jostled along the rutted road.

  “This is it,” the driver said.

  They were in Connecticut. Ray looked at the old red house warily. He felt Hank’s elbow in his ribs again.

  “Get out,” the voice said.

  Ray stumbled out of the car, his feet plunging into mud. Hank shoved him from behind, shouted, “Up to the house.”

  They walked on either side of Ray, the driver just ahead of them. The driver opened the door with a small key, walked inside and opened a window. They followed behind him.

  The house was unfurnished except for several straight chairs. Thick dust covered the floors and windows, and the room smelled musty and aged.

  “Sit down,” Hank said. He gestured toward a chair.

  “Listen, don’t you think you ought to tell me—”

  “Sit down!”

  Ray looked up at the gun in Hank’s fist. It was big and blue, and the gaping end of it stared at Ray menacingly. A .45, with big fat slugs. Not the kind that had killed Eileen and Charlie.

  He sat down while Freddy came over with a heavy rope, swinging it over Ray’s head and then pulling it tight over his arms. He wrapped the rope around Ray several times, looped it under the chair, and then tied each of his ankles to opposite chair legs.

  “You can yell all you want now,” Hank said. “Ain’t nobody for miles.”

  Hank kept the gun in his fist, put both fists on his hips, stood in front of Ray with widespread legs and looked down at him.

  “What’d you do with it?” he asked.

  A frown crossed Ray’s forehead, “What? What’d I do with what?”

  Hank grinned. “Look, junkie, this can be easy or it can be hard. Any way you like it. You tell us what we want to know, and the party’ll be short and sweet. One-two-six, all over. You want to play coy, we’ll have to help you along. It’ll be easier the other way. You understand?”

  “Sure.” Ray squirmed against the ropes that were cutting into his ankles and wrists.

  “So what’d you do with the stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  Hank shook his head, as if he were chiding a naughty boy. “I don’t think you got my point, junkie. We don’t mind a joke, you understand, but we ain’t got much time. No time to waste with a punk like you, anyway. So you tell us what we want to know without any fooling around and everything’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ray said.

  The gun came up with amazing speed, a bluish blur in the sunlight streaming through the open window. He tried to turn his head aside, but he was too late. The barrel slashed across his cheek, slapping into the bone, ripping the flesh back in a tearing flash of pain.

  Ray yelled, “What the hell—”

  “Where’s the heroin?” Hank asked. He stood over Ray with the gun on the flat of his palm now, ready for another blow.

  “Heroin? What heroin?”

  The blow came, the checked walnut stock slamming into the side of his face. Ray shook his head to focus his eyes. He wanted to touch his face to see if he were bleeding. He tried to move his hands, felt the rope bite into them.

  Hank’s sweating face came into view, the scar tissue white against his brown eyes. He leaned over close to Ray’s face, his breath smothering Ray with tobacco and beer fumes.

  “The sixteen ounces of horse. Where’d you hide it?”

  “Oh,” Ray said, his breath rasping into his throat. “Eileen’s horse. Yeah, yeah.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know, I told you.”

  Hank slapped Ray with his open palm.

  “Where is it?” The hand sliced across in a backward motion, and the knuckles rocked Ray’s head to the side.

  “I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t know.”

  “You saw the stuff?”

  “Yes.” He felt something sticky work its way down the side of his face, ooze over his jawbone, down his neck, onto his open collar. “Yes, I saw
it.”

  “Sixteen ounces?”

  “Yes. In a tin. A candy tin.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I don’t know. It was gone in the morning.”

  Freddy moved up close to Hank. “Ain’t no use talking to a junkie,” he said. “These slobs don’t know what they’re saying half the time.”

  Hank sighed deeply. “What’d you do with it, junkie?”

  “I didn’t take it, for Christ’s sake. Eileen and I had a fix that night. I looked for the horse in the morning, but it was gone.”

  “We know it’s gone. Where’d you put it?”

  “I didn’t put it anywhere. It was gone, I told you.”

  Hank sighed again, slowly took the .45 from his belt. “Well, junkie,” he said. “It looks like we’re gonna have to prolong the party a little.” He slapped the gun against the palm of his hand.

  * * *

  There were faces moving in a sea of darkness. Faces that swam into view and then faded, drowning, drowning. There was a steady battering, pounding, thrashing, rocking. Incessant. It fell on his face, the pounding, hammered at his stomach and ribs. His mouth was a gaping red wound, and there were razor blades slashing at his lips, or knives, and spikes inside his mouth, or nails, or sharp glass.

  Something was heavy on his stomach, a Mack truck, or an El pillar, something. And white hot pliers were squeezing his entrails, searing them with flame. He wanted to scream but every time he opened his mouth, he would choke and something thick and hot in his throat would strangle him.

  And under it all was the soundtrack, persistent, monotonous, eating through the pain like acid on steel. “Where’s the heroin? Where’s the heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin…”

  “I don’t know!” he screamed.

  “Easy,” a voice said.

  “He’s coming out of it,” another voice murmured. The voices were far away, lined with fur. They were coming from the end of a long conical cave, and there was a pinpoint of light at the far end of the cave, and the light was getting brighter and brighter and brighter and brighter.

  “I don’t know!” he screamed again. “I don’t know. Honest, honest.”

  Something slapped his face. The skin was raw. It hurt when the slap touched it. The slapping continued, little pats, gentle little pats, coaxing him to awareness.